


Darling, I'm Bored

by WritLarge



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 18:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10224725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritLarge/pseuds/WritLarge
Summary: It made him itch to do something he’d likely regret. There was only one thing for it.“Who is this?”“Darling, I’m bored.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Finally got around to seeing this movie and this is what happens. First attempt at this fandom and these characters.

Boredom, the reason for oh so many foolish ideas. James had never thought he’d fall into the trap himself. No, he’d focused on his ambitions and forged through the drudgery until he’d breached the canopy of academia with his PhD in hand, ready to push the boundaries of human understanding.

He’d promptly been bored to tears writing grant requests and wrangling underlings, and the only thing he’d gotten to push was paper. 

Even theatre, a love long ago discovered that had helped to buoy him along and challenge him when the rest of his existence seemed dull and flat, had no longer thrilled him the way it once had. Audiences too easily impressed and too ready to be pleased.

There wasn’t any fun to be had without a challenge.

He’d been hoping for something different. Something new. Something that turned out to be an ethics complaint of all things, or rather, the threat of one. A hushed argument that had lashed angrily out into the hall. It had intrigued him, drawn him in with its insinuations, and sent him looking for a lab he had never before visited.

A sleep clinic.

Crossing that threshold had been like falling down a rabbit hole and he hadn’t been bored since. 

That life was gone now. Buried by a parade of aliases and lies, papered over first by the shady arm of the government that had eagerly recruited him and later by other less savoury means. James was a ghost and Eames wouldn’t change that, even if it had been foolish and reckless and nearly drowned him with how far over his head he’d gotten before he’d learned to swim in the dark. No, the only thing he truly missed from his youth was his dog, and she was a ghost now too, quite mundanely so having passed just after he’d completed his doctorate.

He was Eames through and through, even if James was his foundation and would have once scoffed at the idea of uneducated amateurs doing what so many did in dream-share, fumbling around without really understanding what they were doing. Truthfully, he still felt that way at times. Which was why the Fischer job had been so fascinating and terrifying and brilliant. A proper challenge. Eames had finally gotten to stretch, putting every skill he had to work and then some, and the team had listened, unlike the job prior where the inception had failed miserably. He’d even managed to squeeze blood from a stone, dragging an overt compliment out of Arthur, which had almost been worth the betrayal of Cobb shoving them out onto a tightrope over Limbo and expecting them to dance.

Betrayal was not uncommon, unfortunately. There weren’t many people worth getting attached to in the business. Eames had less than a dozen potential co-workers in dream-share that he would trust in a working sense. He liked to have at least one of them on any job he took. Beyond that, whenever Eames had begun considering someone more carefully, evaluating if perhaps this was someone he might Trust, he had been inevitably disappointed. 

Until Arthur. Relentlessly reliable Arthur, who, no matter how he’d pushed, had never let Eames down. And he’d had every opportunity to do so. Eames was well practised at giving people just enough rope to hang themselves with without truly being able to do him harm. Sometimes he’d talk other team members into doing the same, just to be thorough.

Peer review was important.

He’d culled several unworthy dream-share pretenders that way, at least two of whom had been planted by a military or intelligence agency. It was one of the things he’d lead with on his CV, if he had ever had cause for one, and he rather longed to discuss the matter with Arthur. He suspected that the point-man had an inkling of what he’d been up to already. Arthur had brought Eames a coffee the last time a team member had walked into one of his traps and unknowingly damned themselves, leaving it at Eames elbow before calling the fool into the next room for a career ending “discussion”. He could still remember how it tasted, hot and swirling with just the right amount of cream. Eames was only a little addicted to the small signs of approval or admiration that Arthur so very rarely doled out. The most recent, that straight forward “I’m impressed”, had been so unexpectedly overt that he’d had to rebuff it in order to cope.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t caught Arthur after they’d cleared customs in L.A. as he should have done. He’d been swinging back and forth between being high on their success and being furious with Yusuf and Cobb. Neither of whom he did much about in the end, Yusuf pleading well enough to be partially absolved and Cobb he’d left to Arthur, as was fair. 

More than once, he’d heard others liken Arthur to a dog, loyal and fierce. Two had suggested working breeds, one a German Shepherd, the other, who had seen Arthur fight in a dream, a Doberman. Yet another, who had witnessed Arthur handle a situation topside when things had gone poorly, with fewer guns and more vicious leverage, had predictably compared him to a wolf instead. 

Eames, who was quite fond of dogs in general, felt that these were all great misunderstandings of Arthur. If he was any sort of dog, he was no purebred, even if he did clean up wonderfully. Arthur had the directness of someone who wanted to think the best of you, coupled with the subtle wariness of someone who knew it was far too likely that he’d be kicked in the teeth instead. If he was a dog, it was the sort you’d pick up off the street and, if you proved yourself worthy to him, would gain the kind of intense loyalty most owners could only dream of. That was why Eames had left it to Arthur, knowing that the man would never work with Cobb again. Not because Dom had made a bad decision or nearly gotten them killed. Arthur would have shaken that off easily. Cobb had done far worse. He’d betrayed Arthur’s trust. 

There may have been a small amount of schadenfreude on Eames’ part regarding Cobb. The man had regained his old life, and his children, but he’d sacrificed dream-share and his dearest friend to do so. If Arthur had a mind to it, no one in the community would ever speak to the man again, inception or no. But Eames’ pleasure mostly came from the fact that he looked forward to no longer having to share.

He’d let Arthur slip past him, however, and it wouldn’t do to seem over eager. So Eames allowed himself some time to enjoy being flush with Saito’s money. His good mood slumped far sooner than it should have, leaving him feeling oddly bereft, in Las Vegas no less. Casting about for something to do, he’d thrown himself into the next job available. 

It was awful. Tedious. As was the next, both jobs running stateside in quick succession. It took him longer than he liked to realize what he was doing, attempting to recapture those bright moments of gratification from the Fischer job. Trying to light up the greyness again. He was getting bored. Bored with dream-share.

It made him itch to do something he’d likely regret. There was only one thing for it.

“Who is this?”

“Darling, I’m bored.”

“Really, Mr. Eames?” He thought he could hear the tiniest of grins on Arthur’s lips through the phone. The man had every right to want to leave the Fisher job behind him, but as the only member of the team that hadn’t gone behind Arthur’s back in one way or another, Eames thought he’d be given more leeway. 

“Dreadfully so.”

“And you’re calling me because?” The sound of Arthur tapping away at some device was barely discernible over the music in the background, which had a vague europop sound to it.

“Oh, love. Can you imagine the sorts of things I might get up to when I’m bored?”

“I think I might have enough imagination for that,” came the wry reply. Ah. Cobb had passed that along had he? Eames wondered if they’d parted amicably or whether Arthur had torn a large a strip off the extractor before washing his hands of him. “You’re in Chicago?” 

Apparently, Arthur was still keeping tabs on him. Excellent.

“Only for as long as it takes for you tell me where to go.” Eames had intended to let the sentence hang, leaving it up to Arthur to choose his riposte, but his phone pinged before he’d finished the sentence with an electronic boarding pass. First class even.

Half a day and one bland airplane meal later, Eames exited the airport, hailed a cab, and narrowly avoided being assassinated by the driver.

Things were looking up already.

Arriving at the non-descript office building Arthur had given him the address for was even better when the man himself looked up as Eames entered and silently mouthed “Thank God”.

“Eames?” Muller greeted him with a South African accent, wearing a rumpled shirt and badly pressed trousers. They hadn’t worked together before, but Eames thought he’d heard the extractor’s name somewhere. “Arthur mentioned you’d be coming. Maybe you can help me talk him around.”

“Oh?” It was a turn of phrase that he rarely heard applied to Arthur.

“Let me tell you about the job.” The man began to detail their task and target without pause. It sounded fascinating and was probably why Arthur took the job in the first place.

Then Muller outlined his plan.

Horrified, Eames let his gaze dart over to Arthur while the man prattled on. The point man held a hand up, finger pointing out, and mock shot himself in the head. If that wasn’t a sign of impending doom, he didn’t know what was. Christ.

“That sounds... interesting.”

“I know, but try telling that to this uptight ass,” he gestured at Arthur behind him. “We have a three day window. We don’t have time to be picky.” Muller threw Eames an am-I-right? look.

Eames took a slow breath in.

“Let’s leave him to his papers, shall we? I’ve just avoided a quick death in the back of a cab and could use a drink.” Arthur’s chair squealed against the floor as he stood, but the extractor hardly noticed as he laughed. 

“Yeah, all right. Let’s have a dop and go over your part. There’s a place not far from here...” Muller slapped him on the back. Eames turned his head and winked at Arthur, who sat back down hard.

“Excellent.”

Eames proceeded to get the man roaring drunk. How Arthur hadn’t shot him already, he’d never know. How did this man find work? He used the opportunity to talk Muller into a number of ideas, no inception required, thank you very much. He also took several liberties with the man’s notes after dumping him in his hotel room, finding his untidy scrawl simple enough to mimic. It was a start at least. Whatever the extractor didn’t remember of the evening, he’d read when he woke and be enamoured by his own brilliance. Eames succumbed to jetlag and allowed himself a few short hours of sleep on the sofa in Muller’s room, but not before sending Arthur a quick text confirming that Muller was out for the night and admonishing him to get some rest. Arthur didn’t reply.

In the morning, Eames stole into the office where Arthur was working, knowing it would be at least another couple hours before Muller would push through his hangover and wake. The point man was hunched over his laptop, hand pressed hard against his temple. He was lovely, even wound up and clearly straining at his metaphorical seams. Eames had missed him.

“You look like you’re going to have an aneurysm, darling.”

“Jesus Christ, Eames!” Arthur snapped up straight.

“Did you get any sleep?” 

“Where’s Muller?”

“Sleeping off the evening. Don’t worry,” he smoothed his hands along Arthur’s shoulders. So tense. “I’m sorting out your extractor. I would rather like to know why I was almost killed, however.” Arthur growled under his breath, but he didn’t pull away from the touch.

“Fucking asshole. I told him not to use that goddamned phone.” Eames placed one hand on the back of Arthur’s neck, if only to see how many liberties would he be allowed to take, and fished out the mobile he’d pilfered from Muller with the other.

“This phone?”

“Yes,” Arthur snatched it from Eames fingers. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting that it would be this bad. You sure as hell won’t be bored though.”

“Mmm,” he rubbed at the base of Arthur’s skull with his thumb. “Tell me how glad you are that I’m here, love, and I’ll forgive the rude welcome.”

Arthur twisted around to face him fully, sliding away from his grasp, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Of course not.”

“How are you going to sort out this crap plan then, because he hasn’t been listened to a fucking thing I’ve told him.” Eames could see the lines of frustration deepening on Arthur’s face. He pulled over a chair and sat.

“It’s like this, darling...”

By the time Muller arrived, they’d fallen in sync and soothed the nerves of the poor architect that had been roped in to the job as well. Then Eames went to work. He danced the extractor around his own ideas, already planted in an alcoholic haze the night before, stroking Muller’s ego skillfully to elicit the correct responses and wielding the man’s arrogance like a weapon against him. He told the man exactly what he wanted to hear, of course. Eames was on his side, he understood, and yes, Arthur was a terrible stick-in-the-mud, wasn’t he? Camaraderie was an essential building block of any good con and they commiserated over previous jobs and overly anxious pointmen like old friends. Moving into the team meeting where Arthur oh so grudgingly gave his approval of their changes capped the morning off perfectly. Muller eagerly donned the suit of smug satisfaction that Eames had crafted him, utterly confident in “his” plan.

Once Muller was in the other room speaking with the client, this time using the mobile Arthur had provided him, they had a moment to confer. He turned to ask but Arthur beat him to it.

“That was worth the first class ticket.” Eames grinned, revelling in Arthur’s praise.

“Did you expect any less?” The dimpled smile he got in reply was all the answer he needed.

The rest of the job went much the same - Eames managed the dream work while Arthur furiously handled their problems up top, using a new location to stage the job to avoid the security team (who thankfully had been misled into thinking their mark was the President of the Board instead of the CTO) that had been dogging their steps while keeping Muller from any further cock ups. Whenever their eyes would meet, a silent exchange of appreciation and mutual exasperation would occur. There would be a great deal of drinking once the job was through.

In the end, it went like clockwork, despite having to listen to Muller barking like a demented drill sergeant, as though Eames had forgotten the plans he’d designed. The man was far too pleased with himself, but he was off to collect their payment now which was all Eames really wanted from him.

“That was better than expected,” Arthur said, back at the hotel, where Eames sprawled on the bed. Their architect was long gone and hopefully following Arthur’s instructions.

“You’re welcome, darling,” Eames watched him finish packing up the room, “but I think I could have done without the chill. Somewhere warmer next time, hmm?”

“Sure you don’t want to go skiing?” Arthur glanced over at him, raising an eyebrow. Cheeky bugger. Eames hadn’t asked for the snow that Ariadne had filled the third level of the Fischer job with.

“If I never set foot on a mountain again, I shall die a happy man,” he heaved himself up reluctantly. Soon they’d be parting again, adrift until the next job drew them back together. Eames preferred to delay the moment as long as possible. “You never did give me all the details about how marvellously competent you are in zero gravity.”

“The flights aren’t for a few hours. You can buy me a drink at the airport.” Eames nodded his agreement. Arthur had booked their departures, as always, and Eames had no idea what connections he’d be sent through. He hardly cared. Arthur knew his travel restrictions better than he did. He wouldn’t have minded some company on the journey, however. “Ready?”

Much to his delight, they didn’t even make it out of the airport. Too much bloody snow, delaying flights and forcing the airline to put them up in a nearby business hotel. The bar there was too depressing to be contemplated. Instead, Eames talked a few bottles away from the bartender, the task eased by a generous flash of bills, and they retreated to Arthur’s room where the man obliged Eames’ earlier request.

“Well,” he began after Arthur finished explaining the explosive elevator kick he’d managed, “how very... creative.”

“Asshole,” Arthur said. Eames tilted his glass at him in acknowledgement from his side of the sofa. “Yusuf flipping the damn van was harder to deal with.”

“What? When did this happen?”

“Before the first kick. I don’t know what the hell he was doing, but the whole goddamned place started spinning like- like one of those rotating tunnels in a fun house. You know?”

“And you what? Hung on for dear life?” He leaned closer, reaching across Arthur to grab the bottle and letting his arm slide over the man’s chest, knocking his tie askew. They’d shucked their jackets and shoes already.

Arthur snorted, “Not with projections trying to kill me.” Eames settled back, their sides now pressed together, and Arthur threw a look at him, signalling just how unsubtle his move had been. Then, to Eames delight, he removed his tie.

“Were you really fighting off projections while the building went topsy-turvy? I’d have liked to have seen that.”

“I’d have liked to see the inception actually take. Were you there at the end?” 

“You mean after Mal killed Fischer, Cobb and Ariadne retrieved him from limbo, and I shocked him back to life before shoving him at the safe while the kick was clearly beginning to reverberate from your level?” What a fuck up. Ariadne had saved the job, though it might not have been needed had she confessed what she’d known about Cobb in the first place. The girl was far too green.

“Yeah. Cobb wouldn’t talk about it, but Ariadne filled in the bit about Mal. Fuck,” he said and wearily rubbed at his face. Arthur had been fond of Mal, hadn’t he?

“Did you know?” Eames assumed Arthur hadn’t. Not entirely. He would have planned for her if he had.

“About Mal? She’d shown up, but it was only in the job before that she really interfered.”

“Interfered?” Arthur’s grimace is enough of a confession. “She targeted you.” Eames shifted, pushing his elbow up over the back of the sofa and placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“After Cobb stopped building, I didn’t think it would happen again. He gave me his word that it wouldn’t.”

“But?” Arthur sighed, dropping his head back and closing his eyes.

“But he was lying, to me or himself, fuck if I know. Ariadne figured it out. That’s why she insisted on coming along, because Cobb wouldn’t tell me how bad it was, and at least someone would be prepared.” No small amount of bitterness shaded Arthur’s tone, his lips twisting around the words. Cobb was a foolish bastard. 

“She should have told you anyway, but that’s something. That she tried. There’s more moxie to that one than you’d think to look at her. She saved the job.”

“Yeah?” Arthur blinked at him. Apparently, the girl was humble.

“Did she not tell you? We were ready to call it when she all but demanded we continue. It was her idea to follow Fischer into limbo and bring him out.”

“Christ.” 

“I know. But they did it, didn’t they?”

“Never again, Eames,” Arthur stared up at him. “I will do a lot of things, but no more of this Sword of Damocles bullshit with Limbo. I don’t care how desperate we are. Yusuf-”

“Oh, Yusuf has learned his lesson, love. Never you mind.”

“Good.” Eames watched the column of Arthur’s throat as he emptied his glass. “I still can’t believe it actually took.” He sat forward and snagged a bottle from the coffee table, topping up both their glasses.

“Darling, I’m wounded by your lack of faith.” 

Arthur laughed, sitting back and shoving his shoulder into Eames side. “No you aren’t. It was a good plan. I just-”

“You didn’t see it,” Eames agreed, “but his face, seeing his father that last time... It was everything to him, that moment. Hope, realization, catharsis, acceptance. It may not have been from the purest of places, but Fischer benefited from what we did more than anyone else.” 

“Inception. The ultimate therapy for Daddy Issues.”

“Indeed,” Eames chuckled. 

“And he still has more money than God.”

“That he does.” The job had been brilliant fun. And if they’d managed an inception once, why not again? “Next time, perhaps, you’ll get to see it yourself.”

“Next time? Are we planning a next time?” 

“Oh, I have some ideas.” Ideas that involved luring Arthur into as permanent a partnership as possible. As fond as he was, he’d happily settle for a friendly business partnership if that’s all that was on offer. Still, the night was young.

“I’ll bet you do. Do you plan on playing extractor next time too?” 

“Why not? I saved your arse on this job, and it’ll be one less person to fuck things up and expect to still get paid for doing so.” 

Arthur gave him a wry grin and knocked his glass against Eames, “Here’s to fewer fuck ups.”

“Agreed.” Eames drank. “We’d need a reliable architect, however. Can’t do everything just the two of us.”

“Ariadne could do with a little mentoring.”

“You think so?” Eames wasn’t opposed. He’d give her the same chance he gave everyone else and see how she fared.

Arthur paused a moment, “I’d be willing to try, if she is. Cobb was a less than stellar role model for her first job. We could do better.” We, Arthur had said. Eames was certainly in favour of that.

“We could.”

“And you like her,” Arthur continued, seeming to rely on Eames’ judge of character.

“Do I?”

“ _Moxie_.” 

“Perhaps I do. But you’ll always be my favourite,” he batted his eyelashes and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“That’s because I can handle your bullshit without resorting to violence.” Which was true. Arthur had endured more of Eames than most others could take without throwing a punch at the very least.

“Can’t have you getting bored, can I?” He ghosted his fingers over the skin inside Arthur’s collar.

“I’m not the one who loses all sense when the adrenaline wears off.”

“Really? You present a lovely facade, Arthur, but you’d be bored to tears as much as I without a proper challenge.”

“My challenges don’t require the threat of bodily harm lurking in the shadows.”

“But you love it when they do,” he moved to speak against Arthur’s ear. “That’s why you enjoy dream-share so much. All the action, with greatly reduced risk, waking up as the perfect safety net.”

“We are never using Yusuf’s formula again,” Arthur reiterated softly.

“Unless we get bored.”

“Eames,” Arthur growled and turned.

“I’m only saying-”

“No,” Eames was pressed back against the sofa as Arthur swung around to straddle him, hands on his shoulders. “Never again.”

“Are you threatening me, pet?” He couldn’t help but smile at Arthur’s forwardness. 

“Imminent peril is the best way to get your attention apparently.”

“I beg to differ.”

“You’re going to be doing an awful lot of begging if you bring Yusuf into one of our jobs again.”

“That’s far less of a deterrent than you might-” The rest of Eames sentence was swallowed up by Arthur’s mouth. God. He pulled the man closer, enough to feel the outline of the buttons on Arthur’s waistcoat digging into his stomach.

“It’s a moot point anyway, Mr. Eames,” Arthur murmured against his lips when he eventually came up for air. 

“Is it?”

“Because I’m not going to let you get bored to begin with.” Christ, that sounded good.

“You think you can manage that, do you?”

“Oh, I have some ideas.” And Arthur spent the rest of the night demonstrating just how creative he could be. 

Months later, while they easily kept boredom at bay on the job and off, slotting into one another’s space during downtime more comfortably than he had hoped, Eames’ continued to suggest Yusuf’s formula wherever possible.

It never failed to get him spectacularly shagged.


End file.
